So, we meet again.

You know, it's great to see you and all. Really, it is. So nice of you to remind me that my body's working how it should be and stuff. Everything's in tip-top shape, no reason for any panicked Google searches this month to see if I have cancer. I suppose that's a blessing in its own right.

Honestly, though, couldn't you think of a better way to tell me there's nothing wrong with me? I mean, turning me into a waterfall and getting bloodstains on my favorite underwear seems a little excessive. Don't even get me started on the cramps, either. Why do I have to spend half my day curled up in bed and suffering if I'm perfectly fine? You could just, I don't know, leave a sticky note on my desk or send me a happy little postcard every so often. "Congrats, all is well! Hawaii's lovely, wish you were here!"

We need to have a chat about your timing, too. It'd be one thing if you could announce your visits to me beforehand-- "Remember when I stopped by on the third last month? Yeah, I'll be here around the same day this month, be ready!" If you feel like you have to swing by every four weeks or so, the least you could do is be polite about it. Crashing my peaceful home a week early or late just doesn't fly with me, honey. You either leave me with no time to prepare at all, or you keep me marinating in my anxiety until you show up, praying you won't catch me off-guard. Making an ass of yourself just sucks for everyone involved.

I don't even want to birth children. We've been over this before, and you still don't listen to me. Shoving a small humanoid out of my body is not how I want my future to go, so why don't we just abandon this whole monthly ritual altogether? I'm not a chicken. I shouldn't have to be laying eggs every month, even if they are microscopic. Quit freaking my uterus out and just let me get on with my life. I'm begging you here.

Don't you want me to be happy and productive and all those good things? It's hard to be a successful member of society when you're telling me to curl up in a blanket burrito and bury myself alive in chocolate instead. Why can't you just let me sit in class or at work without feeling like I'm being repeatedly punched in the gut? Why must I pretend to go about my normal business while I'm constantly worrying over whether or not I've bled through my pants? I don't need new things to fret over, thank you very much. I can come up with plenty on my own without your input.

Again, I appreciate you telling me I'm doing alright, if nothing else. Enjoy your stay while it lasts, I suppose. Don't be surprised if I kick you to the curb the first chance I get.

Love,

A girl who needs more ice cream.